


Exchanged Words

by AnnaBolena



Series: These Years Spent in Paris [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: July 1830, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 04:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “You cannot -- God above, Enjolras, you cannot simply forget about me! I concede it is an easy thing to do! After all, of what consequence is the fool Grantaire, in the grand scheme of things? But had you considered that you may send me a Gamin to inform me of your expected delay? Did the thought even cross your mind that I would assume the worst for your fate? Or did you forget about your intentions to visit me altogether?”Enjolras has straightened, his cravat now hanging undone about his shoulders, his body frozen. Grantaire watches him swallow, watches his pink tongue moisten his lips as he gathers himself enough to form a response.“I am sorry, Grantaire. I do not know how I could have forgotten to inform you, but I did simply forget it. The thought did not cross my mind.”a.k.a. Grantaire and Enjolras in July 1830





	Exchanged Words

**July 16, 1830 - Grantaire’s lodgings, Paris**

The door creaks under the guidance of Enjolras’ hand, his footsteps fall heavy on the wood until they are dulled by Grantaire’s rug. He has but a few seconds to decide whether or not he will feign sleep and he squanders them pitifully. Considering that he is already upright, staring at the night sky from his open window, the execution of such a maneuver would require unthinkable acrobatics. Even should he manage to hurtle back into bed without making a sound - challenging but not impossible - Enjolras has already entered, and now there is not enough time for him to even make a decent attempt of it. In all likelihood it would not have worked anyway, Enjolras is uncommonly apt at telling if he is merely pretending to be at rest.

Still - why has Enjolras come at such an hour? Surely it would have been much shorter a walk from the printer’s to return to his own rooms?

That is, if whoever has just entered _is_ Enjolras. But the lack of sounds accompanying the footsteps speaks of deep familiarity with his rooms, even in the dark; Grantaire extinguished the candles on the dinner table hours ago, and floorboards are strewn with haphazard towers of books or reservoirs of paint. Watching the lights flicker before at last they died seemed painfully fitting. He had not thought Enjolras would still make an appearance.

“Oh,” Enjolras’ voice is soft in surprise when he enters the bedroom. “I had thought you would already be asleep. All the lights are out.”

“You did inform me you had every intention of visiting tonight,” Grantaire shrugs, not turning around, “It would be terribly rude of me to receive you, snoring and dribbling spit down my chin.”

As opposed to receiving him in a dark apartment. It goes unsaid, thankfully.

“You only drool on rare occasions,” Enjolras chuckles, bending down to attempt to undo his boots when Grantaire steals a glance, “My spittle is the more prolific of the two, to be sure.”

Ordinarily Grantaire would bid him sit down on the bed and allow Grantaire to undress him, but tonight has rather been spoiled for him. Enjolras notices. Of course he notices, for Grantaire is shamefully transparent when it comes to matters of  his heart. “Is everything alright?”

“I recall you telling me you would come before nightfall, Monsieur. The hour is late, a new day is about to break.”

“Ought I not have come? You do not usually mind when I slip into your bed as you sleep, unless you do mind and have neglected to tell me thus far, but I may yet make it back to my own rooms before sleep overtakes me if you do not wish me here.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Grantaire straightens his back, at last relents and turns fully to look at him. Enjolras seems exhausted, his hair utterly untamed and his face drawn downwards by heavy bags beneath his eyes that should not yet grace a man of his sparse years. “You are here now, you may well eat and go to bed - though, as I expected you some hours ago, the stew has long gone cold. All the better for you if you are not hungry after all, for it should really be eaten hot.”

“I apologize,” Enjolras pauses, his fingers already at his cravat. “We were caught up much longer than intended at the shop.”

“That is where you were all evening?” Grantaire loathes the queasiness that settles into his gut, traveling up the whole of him and spreading all around, pervading every part of him until he thinks he may faint. Enjolras looks, for a second, as though he might attempt to feed him the lie Grantaire has made ready for his employ.

“Not only there,” he finally admits, holding Grantaire’s eyes, his gaze level.

“You were once more meeting with some dubious source then, you mean to say but do not quite know how to phrase.” Grantaire cannot keep the accusation from his voice entirely. “Did you at least have the sense to bring Bahorel along with you, this time?”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras presses the name out. It is admirable, Grantaire supposes, that the man continues to resist the apparent impulse to lie to him. True enough, Grantaire would not have had a hard time confirming with Bahorel, but lesser men than Enjolras might grasp at the chance to have an excuse at hand.

“Combeferre is no more able to protect you than a child brandishing a particularly moldy stick,” Grantaire argues, crossing his hands. “I have seen the good doctor-to-be attempt to throw a punch and nearly break his surgical future into a thousand pieces along with his knuckles. Why did you not ask Bahorel? Heavens, why did you not ask _me_?”

“You?” Enjolras scoffs, in disbelief, “Do you mean to tell me you were not well on your way to being incapacitated even before it became evident that I would run late tonight?”

“For once, _mon cher_ , I am entirely sober, astounding though that may be to you,” Grantaire bites out. Enjolras does not recoil - not quite, but it seems the sheer shock of this knowledge has him snapping his head up, soft lips poised for an ‘oh’ that does not make a sound. “I made myself sick with worry, Enjolras, and I heard not a peep from you all night. You are right, I was sorely tempted to drink myself into a stupor, to have oblivion take ahold of me — only I thought that before dawn Courfeyrac would come knocking at my door and ask my help in fishing your lifeless body from the Seine! I cannot go to the authorities in case you disappear, I can turn nowhere if something should happen to you! Oh yes, scoff all you like at my supposed ridiculousness! But let us not pretend that the inspectors would not be the first to rejoice over your demise. You and Courfeyrac have been doing a _fine_ job spying on them, after all; gathering intel, thwarting careers that were set in stone, exposing _corruption_ and shaping public opinion.”

“Say what you would and do so plainly, Grantaire.”

“You cannot -- God above, Enjolras, you cannot simply _forget_ about me! I concede it is an easy thing to do. After all, of what consequence is the fool Grantaire, in the grand scheme of things? But had you considered that you may send me a Gamin to inform me of your expected delay? Did the thought even cross your mind that I would assume the worst for your fate? Or did you forget about your intentions to visit me altogether?”

Enjolras has straightened, his cravat now hanging undone about his shoulders, his body frozen. Grantaire watches him swallow, watches his pink tongue moisten his lips as he gathers himself enough to form a response.

“I am sorry, Grantaire. I do not know how I could have forgotten to inform you, but I did simply forget it. The thought did not cross my mind.”

Grantaire suspects he knows how the man forgot - it is because Enjolras’ head is not the one filled with snippets of his lover at all times. The knowledge of it cuts him deep, though it is hardly a revelation to have his fears come this close to being confirmed. Enjolras can not possibly make himself clearer without spelling it out in the exact wording of Grantaire’s mind.

He says nothing in response. Any words that could come to his tongue at the moment would only reveal too much of his heart and he is certain his face is already doing a fine job of conveying his hurt. Currently he cannot bear the thought of being so open with Enjolras as he is used to. He cannot tell the man that he feels he is last in Enjolras’ thoughts, or how much he wishes that position would change, that he would move up on the list — that Enjolras might carve out a bigger, still small but respectable place in his heart for poor, wretched Grantaire.

(“I care for you,” they told one another, years ago. But Enjolras, lover of liberty, cares some amount for near every being on this earth.)

Grantaire knows it would be an unfair demand to make of a man who burns so ardently for his causes. Already he takes up more of Enjolras’ time than he is worthy of - in a world defined by reason or sense Enjolras would spend his nights and share a bed with someone that shared his fervor and hopes.

Mercifully the world makes very little sense.

So he holds his tongue. But Enjolras knows him well, after all these years. Still in his boots but content to ignore the cream-colored cravat as it slips off his shoulders to the floor, Enjolras approaches him, crossing the room in fast strides but stopping just short of touching him. Grantaire resists the temptation to lean towards him, to initiate contact himself, though his body longs to bend towards Enjolras, like a naive sprout growing and climbing towards the sun.

“You are cross with me,” Enjolras sighs, eyes astute even as they are filled with concern. “How do I make it better?”

Grantaire closes his eyes. He cannot give Enjolras an answer - not least of all because a selfish, ugly part of him wants to ask Enjolras to give up Paris, to allow Grantaire to take him to some obscure spot on this earth, where they may live peacefully and Grantaire need not spend his days drunk or consumed but torn apart by worry either way. Enjolras might even build a miniature commune there, one where men and women and children alike are good to one another and untouched by corruption. If such a thing were possible he would want Enjolras to have it, would want to help him create it. Grantaire thinks he would let the man have at it without as much as a roll of his eyes, in that faraway place, if only it would mean he were not so constantly embroiled in danger of the acutest kind.

He does not say as much. Grantaire does not say anything, in fact.

“ _Can_ I make it better or has my trespass been too great?”

“Assure me of your intentions to have Bahorel accompany you, next time you gather intel on Margin or his underlings.”

“Bahorel was with his woman tonight,” Enjolras sighs. “I did think to check before engaging Combeferre.”

“That is a feeble excuse, Enjolras, and far from the assurance I sought.”

“You do realize that I do not seek out danger with intent? Never mind, I know you do not believe that, we disagree on that and much more -- but Grantaire, truly: I will make sure I am suitably accompanied, the next time a need for it arises. Though please do not imagine I rejoice to have you place such an obligation on my head.”

Grantaire, previously on the cusp of allowing the matter to rest, startles once more.

“Oh yes, I see how it is! How unfairly limiting it must seem to you,” he hisses, “That I would ask to see you take precautions for your own physical integrity. You attempt to shoulder the burdens of an entire nation day after day, but ensuring that you do not quit this life bleeding to death in a dark alley, that is too cumbersome? Would that I had not brought it up!”

“Grantaire, really, we need not fight about this,” Enjolras rubs a hand over his face. “I will do as you ask of me, I have already said as much. It is not -- You must know I do not appreciate being thought of as helpless, especially by you!”

“Helpless? My fussing is not exclusive to your person, Monsieur! Do you imagine I would tell Bahorel, made of steel and giant’s blood as he is, to go ahead on his own when he contemplates meeting dubious sources by moonlight? Are you so convinced that I do not urge _him_ to have someone proficient in fighting by his side? You, monsieur, are far from helpless - you hold your own admirably enough even without a blade in your hand - but your intrepidity borders on foolishness at the most inopportune times!”

He turns away from Enjolras. Behind him, he hears a sigh, before cold hands find the bared skin of his waist and even colder lips find the nape of his neck. “Forgive me.”

Grantaire nods. Of course.

“I do not wish to fight, truly, that is not why I came to you,” Enjolras whispers. “Your concern for me, as well as our friends, is touching. Now might I say we are agreed as to how such matters will be handled in the future?”

“Very well,” Grantaire swallows down further words, instead reaching to press Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras breathes him in, pulls him back against his chest.

“Shall we sleep, then? I confess my eyes will not be able to remain open for even a few minutes longer.”

+

**July 17th, 1830 - Grantaire’s lodgings, Paris**

Enjolras is of the rare sort of man Grantaire knows capable of ignoring the heat generated between two bodies when they are pressed together for the duration of a night, for he sleeps soundly and unbothered in Grantaire’s arms, whereas Grantaire awoke ages ago, stifled by the climbing temperatures and sweat-bathed, but entirely unwilling to let the man leave his arms. He, too, is capable of sacrifice.

Enjolras will be gone from his embrace soon enough, in any case. This time because Grantaire must force some distance, but some day in the future - perhaps in a future rather more proximal than Grantaire should like - it will be by Enjolras’ hand, by his involvement in Paris’ radical circles, that they will be parted.

“I know I said we need not speak on it any further,” Enjolras says into his chest, demonstrating that he has been awake for some time as well and has had ample time to contemplate last night’s exchange while his brain was not addled by exhaustion, “But the source I spoke with did prove fruitful. Apparently Charles intends to sign a whole host of ordinances--”

“I think I shall leave town tomorrow, to visit my aunt. She has been urging me to do so for weeks now and I confess I have been rather a neglectful nephew, as of late.”

As they are both awake Grantaire sees no reason to further postpone voicing what has been rattling around in his mind since he opened his eyes to sunlight filling the room. Enjolras’ eyes open, the blue of them alarmingly captivating in the morning light. He draws away from Grantaire, propped on one elbow and using his free hand to push blond curls out of his vision. Despite their close contact during the night, his shirt does not stick to him. One could easily be led to suppose that the man does not produce sweat at all, only Grantaire has seen him physically worked up rather often now, and can firmly disprove such a theory. Enjolras sweats as all humans do, just not _when_ all humans do.

“You would leave now? Paris is on the eve of revolt, and you would leave?”

“Paris is always on the eve of revolt, it is her natural state of being,” Grantaire snorts. “The day her people are not talking of effecting change by way of a riot I will gladly eat my own boots, covered in the sweepings of the streets.”

“These intended ordinances will not be borne. Surely you must see that our brothers and sisters will rise to defy Charles if he attempts--”

“He declared his intentions a week ago. Nothing has happened so far. I would not be so sure that something must inevitably give soon. You know well that the city folk prefer to stew in their discontent and feel it simmer around them— it keeps them warm in winter and it fills their bellies year long. Talking of their discontent is as familiar to them as the oppression that causes it.”

Enjolras stares at him.

Grantaire would know, since he is such a man.

“It is later than you suppose,” Grantaire clears his throat, “And if I recall correctly you have an appointment to keep today, with the young Chevalier.”

Another day, Grantaire might take the fact that Enjolras does not even remind him not to call Courfeyrac thus as a sign of deep contemplation, a sign that Grantaire has made him aware of his displeasure and that he is wondering how best to mend things between them. As it stands, his head is most likely filled with the politics he expects of the coming days, not with Grantaire or his injured heart.

“Grantaire--”

“I will see you when I return, I do not think I will be more than a few weeks away from Paris,” he vows, cradling Enjolras’ hand and pressing a kiss to his palm, then the pulse point on his wrist. “Courfeyrac will be waiting for you already. You really ought not to be late when someone is waiting for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say Hi on [ Historical Notes: -Claude Mangin was the Prefect of the Paris Police from 1829-1830 -The July Ordinances would, on the 25th of July 1830, spring from Charles X's decision on July 9th to govern by royal decree, going forward. His justification for the decision came from Article 14 of the 1814 Charter.](http://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com)


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